


Pickle in the Pocket

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor, Pickles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes meets the Napoleon of Crime and succeeds in driving him to tears.  A pickle is a useful tool to have in an emergency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pickle in the Pocket

“Good morning to you, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I have the first post of the day here, and your breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”

Our landlady deposited the bundle of letters and postcards upon the table. She turned to leave, then remembered a small visiting card which she retrieved from her apron pocket and placed to one side of the small pile.

“Also, this gentleman was here to see you earlier on, Mr. Holmes, but you were still abed. He said that it might wait and he would return a little later.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said. I peered over to glance at the name on the card. I did not recognise it. I returned to drumming my teaspoon against the china, tapping the white cotton cloth with my fingertips. Holmes was seated opposite to me, his chin wedged firmly in his hands and his elbows at the most ill-mannered angle upon the table. He was scowling at an empty dish in front of him, but that was nothing so very unusual. I smiled at my friend.

“If you had risen a little earlier this morning, then you might have successfully caught the gentleman,” I told him. “You are becoming incurably lazy. Soon it may be the case that you are going to bed before you even get up.” 

I chuckled at my joke.

“What on earth are you trundling on about, Watson?” my friend demanded. “And what is so funny? And where is my breakfast? And who was speaking not a minute ago? It sounded like a buzzing bluebottle.”

“It was Mrs. Hudson,” I replied. “She came to bring us the morning post. And you had a visitor. You really were not paying the slightest scrap of attention, were you, my dear fellow?”

“I have a headache,” said he, “which is only being exacerbated by bluebottles and teaspoons and snorts.”

“I do not snort,” I said, indignant.

“I very much regret that you do,” said Holmes, rubbing at his temples. “Enough to convince me that it is so, or we have an asthmatic hog running loose in our rooms.” He sat up the straighter, then, frowning. “A visitor?” he enquired. “Tell him to go away, Watson.”

“He already has,” I said. “But he will be coming back.”

My friend groaned. I pushed the visiting card across the table to him.

“There,” I said. 

Holmes peered at the card.

“That is a stupid name,” he said. He returned to ministering relief to his sore head.

I confess that I was in part way perhaps to blame for Holmes's incapacitation this morning. For it had been my birthday only the previous day, and I in my kindness had invited my friend out to dinner where we had indulged ourselves, and later back at 221B with wine, brandy and port, until well after the midnight hour. Holmes – when sober – is quite enough for any man to deal with. When inebriated, he is a warbling lunatic with a lampshade on his head.

“My head hurts. I feel sick,” said Holmes. “And what is the lampshade doing over there on the floor in the corner? And why does it have a big dent in it?”

“I really have no idea,” I said, diplomatically. “Are you going to be able to manage breakfast? Would you like some medicine to settle your stomach?”

Holmes pulled a face. He shook his head, his tongue pushed out.

I sighed. “So you are just going to sit there and suffer and complain and whimper until you feel better?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “You always ask me that same question. I do not know if you expect a different answer every time. I must be a monstrous disappointment to you.” He began to rock to and fro. “Feel sick, feel sick, feel sick,” he chanted. His mouth was turned down in its misery. 

I opened a few of the letters that were cluttering the table. A holiday postcard from Inspector Lestrade made me smile. The large receipt from Crabapple Antiques made me frown. I crumpled the monthly newsletter from the _TrillsAplenty_ opera company into a ball and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. It was with pleasure that we welcomed Mrs. Hudson's return with a full breakfast tray, which she set out carefully before us.

“Ham, eggs, pickles and toast,” said she. “And a nice pot of tea. Please do try to eat something, Mr. Holmes. You are looking peaky this morning. A little dry toast will settle your stomach.”

“Thank you,” said my friend, with ill grace. “Pickles!” he said then, sounding faintly surprised. 

“Yes, pickles, how lovely. But you had better not have any,” I said, “in case they aggravate your digestion.”

Holmes huffed. Snatching one from the dish and painstakingly wrapping it in paper tissue, he thrust it into the front pocket of his purple dressing gown. “I shall save it for later,” he murmured.

“You do that,” I agreed, deadpan. I watched as he nibbled on a corner of dry toast, sipped at a cup of tea and fidgeted with the calling card in front of him. When he had managed a whole two pieces and a small portion of ham and eggs, I set down my knife and fork to enquire as to his state. “Are you feeling any better?”

My friend wrinkled up his nose. “A little,” he admitted, reluctantly. He leaned back in his chair and languorously stretched out his long limbs, yawning widely. He reached for the Crabapple receipt – confirming the sum of five pounds and ten shillings for some exotic gewgaw or other – and commenced to fold it this way and then that, creasing and turning back edges and corners in that extreme precise manner of his.

“Holmes,” I said, “whatever are you doing with that paper?”

The doorbell below rang out. My friend tutted and continued his origami, seemingly unconcerned regarding his state of dress. I moved to the window and peered out onto the street. I espied a dark, expensive suit and the black sheen of a top hat, as both disappeared into the hallway of our building. Two sets of footsteps upon the stair, then, and Mrs. Hudson was tapping upon the sitting-room door: once, twice, briskly. She entered alone.

“Mr. Holmes,” said she, “the same gentleman who was here earlier this morning has returned to see you.”

Our landlady stood aside to allow our visitor to pass and enter, which he did, standing there inside the threshold looking left and right. He was tall, almost cadaverous, with nervous fingers agitating the sleek brim of his hat which he held now within his hands. His eyebrows rose upon sight of my friend who was still sprawled at the window table, paying no mind to our new company. The fellow glanced quickly at his watch as if he had gravely misread the time.

“It is ten o'clock,” the gentleman said, disbelieving. “And you are still in your pyjamas, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes turned his head, at last, and fixed the intruder with a stare.

“They are new and they are clean,” he said. “And my slippers match. Look.” He thrust out a shod foot as proof. “Did you really tramp all the way across London just to confront me upon my preferred choice of morning wear, Mr. Morty?”

The suited gentleman shook his head violently.

“My name is not Morty,” said he, darkly. 

“Yes it is,” said Holmes.

“No, it is not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it is n-- now listen here,” said the man, “do not play games with me, Mr. Holmes. You know very well who I am.”

“I do indeed,” said Holmes. “Your name is Professor Arty Morty. I suppose you will be telling me next that you have carelessly mislaid your asteroid. I must inform you that my professional charges are upon a fixed scale, save when I remit them altogether. Which I shall not be doing in this case. I need the cash,” he added.

The Professor stamped his foot in frustration.

“My name is Professor _James Moriarty_ , Mr. Holmes. I have not mislaid my asteroid. I do not require your services and therefore I shall not be providing you with cash.”

Holmes frowned. “Then... you are wanting to sell me carriage insurance?”

“No.”

“You wish to obtain my much sought-after autograph upon the latest issue of _The Strand_ magazine, set against one of Dr. Watson's appallingly flowery, hyperbolic stories?”

“No, I most certainly do not.”

That offended me. On both counts.

“Then whatever _do_ you want, Professor Morty?”

Our visitor's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He squinted at the pair of us, much as a mole unused to sharp sunlight. The similarity did not quite altogether end there.

“I wish to give you a warning, Mr. Holmes,” said the Professor, his lips set thin.

Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair. He straightened his dressing gown and thrust both hands into his pockets. He advanced three steps towards Professor Moriarty, his brow furled in fierce curiosity.

“Eh?” said Holmes.

“I have a warning,” the Professor repeated.

“And I have a large pickle,” said Holmes. “But you don't see me boasting about that.”

“What?” Our visitor took a step back. “I am afraid that I do not understand, Mr. Holmes. But never mind. I must warn you now that you are dabbling in certain affairs which do not concern you, and for your own safety you must refrain. You really must, you know.”

“Do you have a crick in your neck?” Holmes enquired. “You keep swivelling it about.”

The Professor exhaled, heavily. He intently examined his fingernails as if in an attempt to regather his thoughts, then he looked up again to my friend.

“Mr. Holmes,” said he, “you are not taking me very seriously. And that is a fatal error on your part, I do assure you.”

“Professor Morty,” my friend replied, “if you would be so kind as to utter one single, sensible word to myself and Dr. Watson, then we might, in actual fact, take you rather the more seriously. As it is, all you have done is to mislead us about your name, lie about your asteroid, and brag about your awning.”

“ _I DID NOT SPEAK OF AN AWNING_ ,” screamed the Professor, his face red, fists curled in fury. “What in all manner of madness would I even be doing with such a thing?? _I have a WARNING_.” He paused. “For you,” he added, politely.

Holmes stopped to consider this.

“I do not think that I want one,” said he. “Thank you, all the same.”

“A warning, or an awning?” asked the Professor. “I am confused, Mr. Holmes.”

“The state is quite mutual,” my friend replied. “But I refer to the warning. And the awning too, if you are in possession of one.”

“I am not,” said the Professor, his breathing now strangely irregular.

The two were now stood just several feet apart. Of comparable height and bearing, each possessing a formidable charisma, they closely regarded one another. As foe or as intrigue, or as professional competition, it was impossible for me to tell. I was struck silent and proud by my friend's compelling command of the situation. Never had he been so masterful.

“Shall we go over this again,” said Holmes, yawning once more. “You, sir, burst into my rooms to tell me that you have a warning. It has taken you quite twenty minutes to get thus far. By the time you have delivered the message itself we shall have arrived in the new century and my beard will be ponderous.”

“Well, you keep interrupting me,” the Professor complained. “I am warning you that you are dabbling in things which should not concern you. Please stop it. Or, or... or you will be sorry.” 

“I am never sorry about _anything_ ,” said Holmes. “It is one of my finer qualities.”

“Keep your nose out of my business affairs!” screamed the Professor. “You are a pain in the neck!”

“Oh!” Holmes lifted his chin and raised his eyes to the heavens. “Aha! You are _that_ Professor Morty. Yes, I seem to recall who you are now...” Holmes raised a corner of his mouth in a sly smile. “...You are involved in various nefarious dastardly deeds, which would make your poor dear mother blench in horror.”

“Do not bring my mother into this,” said Professor Moriarty. “She has never been the same following her severe misfortune with a Singer sewing machine.”

“...Those same deeds which would also be the mortification of your father...”

“Do not bring my wretched father into it either,” snapped the Professor. “For he is still recuperating from his failure to entirely avoid a derailed Blackpool tram.”

“Dear me. You have my sympathies. Well, my dear Professor, I must inform you that you do not alarm me in the slightest, for I have always found you to be a coward of the yellowest varietal shade, and moreover, you are quite the biggest sausageh--”

“--What Holmes means is,” I said, interrupting quickly, “is that it might be better for you to leave us now, Professor Moriarty. For no good can come by threats or warnings made to a gentleman in his own home.”

The Professor scowled. He seemed about to make a reply when his attention was caught abruptly by the front of my friend's dressing gown.

“What is... that?” he enquired, pointing, hesitant.

Holmes looked down.

“It is my pickle,” said he.

Our visitor took yet another step back towards the door.

“I do not care for your terminology, Mr. Holmes,” said the Professor.

“And I do not care for your face,” said Holmes, “so I think that you should leave.” 

“Very well, then, I shall,” replied the strange fellow. “Just remember all that I have said to you this morning.”

“Remember _all_ of it?” said Holmes. “Might you run over the whole thing once again, so I can be absolutely sure?”

“No,” said Professor James Moriarty, now seemingly on the brink of tears. “No, I cannot. I must go. I cannot remain here in this madhouse a second longer.”

He turned around, all but knocking into the sideboard in his mad haste before wrenching open the door and stamping away down the stairs, muttering wildly to himself on his descent.

“What an eccentric gentleman, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “And such extraordinary behaviour. Nevertheless, I believe that you have subdued him that he might think twice before knocking upon our door again.”

Holmes smiled at me. He moved back towards the table, where he snatched up the last slice of toast and spooned a small heap of scrambled egg atop it.

“At the very least it distracted me from my malaise,” said he. “I feel quite well again now. I might even eat my pickle.” He pushed the creased and folded Crabapple receipt across the table at me. “For you,” he said, offhandedly.

I picked up the paper offering. My friend had manipulated it most artfully into a long-necked swimming swan. 

“Thank you,” I said, with a chuckle. “How very thoughtful.”

He winked at me, and together by the sunny window we shared the remainder of our late, delicious breakfast.


End file.
